


Life On Mars

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Series: My SteveBucky Mixtape [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Dancing, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23510335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: Steve just wants a dance.[Life On Mars by David Bowie]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: My SteveBucky Mixtape [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691632
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Life On Mars

**Author's Note:**

> Here begins the SteveBucky Mixtape! It'll be a collection of short stories about Steve and Bucky based off songs I feel are relevant to them and enjoy :D

“Really, Buck?”

“What?” Bucky defends loudly, swaying wildly to one side. His alcohol consumption is about that recommended of three men and he's got the confidence to prove it. His voice reverberates through the streets and more than one person hangs the head out a window to start. Steve hides in plain sight, overshadowed by Bucky’s overwhelmingly drunk presence.

“Cathy? Really?”

“She’s a nice girl.”

“Everyone calls her plain,” Steve reasons, although his heart isn’t really in it. He’s been called a hell of a lot worse than plain. And it's not like boys ever got called plain, only worse.

“Exactly! No one deserves to sit at the side and just _watch_. She’s a real doll and I thought I should teach her a few moves.”

“You’re a menace, Barnes.”

“That I am. But anyway, just because someone calls her plain, doesn’t mean she actually is.” Bucky shoots Steve a poignant look; it’s subsequently ignored.

“She sorta is. Compared to the other girls.”

“What? Just ‘cause her hair’s a little straight, and it ain’t as blonde as the rest’a them?”

“She’s quite shy.”

“You’re shy at the dancehalls, Steve, don’t mean you ain’t got personality.”

“I’m just saying…”

“You don’t need to be saying. We got places to be.”

“Wha- No, Buck, you’re drunk.”

“It’s barely even nine o’clock!”

“So I should get you home.”

“Come on, slugger, we ain’t going home yet.” Bucky reels Steve in by his shoulders, dragging him down the next turning, walking a few blocks until they get to McGall’s, an Irish dancehall that Bucky's been to a few times. Steve, for reasons beyond Bucky's comprehension, has never been.

“Buck, we really shouldn’t. You’ll embarrass yourself.”

“Nah, I’m not that drunk. The walk did me good.”

“It’s late.”

“Ok, now you’re just making excuses. Come on, we’ll find you a dance partner.”

“I don’t want-“ But they’re already inside. Bucky pays their fee, as he always does, and drags him into the main hall. There’s a live band on the small stage and a busy dance floor. It’s an open space, just a slippery wooden floor and plain white walls but it’s a Friday and it’s late enough now that it’s started to fill, hiding the plainness behind twirling skirts and smirking fellas. There’s still plenty of lingerers around the edge like Steve, they’re all teenagers after all, but there are enough people on the floor that Steve doesn’t feel completely exposed.

It’s still a rather small affair, uncomfortably so. It’s one of those times where everyone is expected to dance with everyone until the place shuts. Even so, Steve won’t get a single one.

As Bucky takes his first girl onto the dance floor, Steve finds a seat at one of the tables and fiddles with a cent he has in his pocket, spinning it lazily and watching it clatter to the table quietly. It’s soothing, to watch is spin and spin and spin until it finally runs out of momentum. Keeps him entertained for at least thirty seconds.

Now, what to do.

He tries listening to the music but it’s plain. Well, it’s good music but it’s clearly made for dancing and the whole insinuation of the thing just makes Steve more upset. No, not upset. He doesn’t get upset by things like this anymore. Just…despondent.

His ma said he shouldn’t have gone out tonight; the shame of her being right is somehow worse than the despondency. She’d said it would only make him feel worse, what with his current moods and all. But Bucky was having none of it and had dragged him along anyway. Steve is stubborn but Bucky’s always been able to get his way.

It only gets worse. Twenty minutes in, the knowledge settles in that he won’t get chosen on yet another night, made worse by the fact that he didn’t dance in the _last_ place either. Two failures in one night is one too many. He scans the crowds but he can’t see Bucky anywhere. There are a lotta fellas in similar suits; they’re mostly made out of the same fabrics, money is tight and most people resort to the same cheap materials. Most don’t have suit jackets, either lost to jackets or too many nights on the town, but they all have shirts and suspenders, looking dapper as they spin girls around and around and around-

Steve stands up. He’s sick of the embarrassment and there’s a painful burning in the back of his throat like he’s about to cry or somethin’. But he’s no cry baby so instead, he walks out into the cool night breeze, relishing in the shivering cold of Brooklyn’s nighttime streets.

He begins to trace the way home, knowing that Bucky won’t realise he’s gone for another hour. Probably not until the place shuts. And then, it’ll serve him right to panic, looking all over for Steve.

Steve has walked out plenty of times, but he’s never _gone home_.

He tucks his hands in his pockets and pushes onwards, his mind drifting. There’s something beautiful about the nighttime. About how the street lights buzz and wash the black ground gold. How the noise of the city is reduced to a murmur, broken only by the drunk, the crazy and the confident.

He can breathe out here, even in the city smog. The asthma doesn’t clog up his lungs when the air is cleaner; it’s like he can finally wake up. It shoots serenity in his marrow like a drug, making him drearily complacent with the image.

At times like these that he feels most like he’s in a movie. Like he’s a character with a purpose and a life and a backstory, walking down streets with more beauty than reality can ever muster. It’s like he’s constructed reality into fiction and turned the dark edges blindingly white.

He’s made life beautiful.

But it only makes reality that much worse. When his senses return and the gold turns into a damaged yellow, and the concrete turns into the plain, drab grey statement that defines cities for what they really are: man-made. The beauty saps before his very eyes as his apathy overwhelms him. He can’t hold the image any longer; instead, he’s sunk to the bottom his own heart, lost in the thoughts of lost dreams. A quiet midnight lullaby and someone’s embrace.

Bucky’s embrace.

He’s not gonna lie. He ain’t stupid. He’s worryingly addicted to this crush on his best friend, like its a lifeline saving him from so much worse. Bucky is the safe option, the best option, the one he can dream about having under the moonlight, spinning around and around like he does with those plain girls.

He’d do it for Steve, if he asked. Steve knows he would. It’s why he doesn’t. It would be outta pity. Bucky isn’t like him; he likes the girls, the skirts, the makeup. So does Steve, for that matter. But Steve’s inverted, he’s got an extra preference that society won’t let him have. He likes the skirts, the prettiness, the effeminacy.

He also likes the thought of strong arms surrounding him, caring for him, having a smoke with him, talking like friends. There’s a different expectation with a man. He doesn’t want to take the woman’s role, but he wouldn’t mind it. He’d do it. For Bucky. He really would. But in his greatest dreams, he imagines them on the balcony, exchanging languid kisses whilst they talk like they always do. Friends first. Lovers next. Just two fellas getting on with their day, but that get to have something _more_.

The thought makes him want a smoke, maybe just to make the fantasy feel that much more alive. They hurt his lungs on the best of days but they’re supposed to help him so he smokes them when he can.

He’s distinctly aware of his empty pockets. He definitely brought a pack of smokes out tonight but they’re definitely nowhere on his person. They’re certainly not at the last place, he didn’t bring them out, but smoked one at the first hall. Swearing under his breath, he realises he left them on the table. They’re expensive things and he knows already that he’s gonna have to go back and get them, hoping no one has stolen them. It’s unlikely but possible. He’s not wasting his ma’s hard-earned money because of his own forgetfulness.

He’s already on the path back to the last place but at the end of the block, he takes a left turn instead of right and traipses away from home and to the first dancehall.

It’s already clearing out, but from the previously bustling state is still feels pretty busy. It’s a little nicer than the other place; the wood shines under your feet and the walls have a few tasteful paintings on the walls, done by the college around the corner. It’s the place Steve wants to go to, but he’s still saving up for it. It’s a dream of his.

He gets back to the entranceway, where a guy in a sleazy suit is asking for an entrance fee. Trying to use his height to his advantage, he tries to duck by the guy and let the crowd swallow him but it’s clear he’s failed soon enough. The man is gripping his arm and in a gravelling voice says, “you think you can get in there for free?”

“Look, pal, I was here earlier, I’m just trying to get something I left. No funny business.” It’s times like these that Steve wishes he was a girl, able to flutter his eyelashes and get his way, but the man’s just staring at him with dull brown eyes and over-greased hair.

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Come on, I need it.” Steve doesn’t like to beg, but he hates losing money even more.

“I _said_ that ain’t gonna happen.”

“Fine,” Steve huffs, tugging his arm away. “Guess I’m leaving then.” It’s an unnecessary addition but Steve’s never been a good liar, always overdoing it. But the guy doesn’t seem to care, going back to leaning against the wall, fiddling with a pile of bills like he’s the richest man in New York. Looking at his suit, he’s most definitely not.

Steve stalks outside and immediately makes his way down the alleyway and finds the service door. It’s not the first time he’s done this and if he gets caught, it won’t be the first time either. He remembers the first time he’d done this, shaking to the bone, but they’d only have enough money for one person to go out so he’d shoved Bucky inside without him, resolute to find another way to join him. Now it’s commonplace. When they don’t got enough money, or some sleaze-bag is enough of a pig to bar him entrance, he gets to the service door and sneaks in.

It’s a success.

He gets in without being spotted and stays far enough towards the front that the guy at the front doesn’t have a hope of spotting him. Luckily, his previous table is in the shadows, tucked away in corner ready for him to mope the night away. Buck says it’s the reason he never gets a dance, second only to the fact that he never _asks_ a girl to dance. Buck tries to send them his way but it never works. Bucky doesn’t seem to realise how much worse that is that not asking at all.

His smokes are right there. There are definitely one or two missing but whoever took them is nice enough to leave the rest of the packet and really, he couldn’t have expected any better. Before tucking them back in his pocket, he takes one out and lights it, bringing it to his lips and resisting the urge to cough into it. He looks uncool enough already without showing off the fact that he can barely smoke a cigarette.

The smoke trails off into the sky, joining the dirty haze above them. It dulls the lights, might even make the atmosphere more romantic, but it definitely fills the space with an undeniably off-putting smell. Or maybe that’s just Steve, who knows that public places like these set him off wheezing. But he’s used to it; he can suffer through it with enough determination.

Unknowing of why he makes the choice, he takes a seat. It gives him a clear view of the whole dance floor, enough to watch without interruption. There’s something oddly fascinating about it this time. Maybe it’s the lack of expectations or the distance from Bucky, but he doesn’t feel embarrassed, only entranced in the lazy swing of the dancers, the delighted giggles of the chosen girls and the husky whispers of successful men.

More than the street can ever be, this is a movie before his very eyes. He’s hooked. But the funny thing about entrancing beauty is that it fades so quickly. Time is so quick to take, and the distant apathy can only be held back so long before it rushes back over him. Soon the delight turns to distinct disgust as his eyes focus on other things. Men’s reaching for places they shouldn’t be, panicked eyes as girls try to pull away. Leery smiles and forced drinks. They’re almost all underage here but he notices more than a few tipsy guys and dolls and wonders how many of them came out thinking they would get drunk.

It bores him quickly enough. It’s familiar, the boredom. It’s a constant monster in his mind, sucking the beauty out of life one picture at a time. Bucky says he needs to smile a little more but Steve often finds he can’t. His ma helps a lot; he always manages a smile around her. Bucky does too, when he’s not being a pain in Steve’s backside. But they can’t be around forever and Steve is always eventually left with his dreams and nightmares, shared in equal measure. One minute he’ll be dancing with Bucky behind his eyes, the next his chest will be too tight and the inevitability of the end without that dance is hitting his heart like a knife.

But he continues to watch anyway, likes the familiarity of the routine, the self-pity, the worthlessness, the intrigue, the cycle. It goes on and on and on until it can’t seem to make one emotion out from the next, making him a dirty cocktail of despair and curiosity.

At least watching brings back one emotion that is as intensely familiar as it is comforting: anger. It starts with another fella being a little bit too handsy, the timid girl too scared of making a fuss to push him off. He’s crowding her into a corner, a sickeningly daring smile on his face; his hair’s slicked back, like the rest of the fellas but there’s something about the exact perfection of it that screams ‘get away!’. Steve’s out of his seat in a heartbeat, although he doesn’t dare approach until he gets a better eye of what’s going on. He may throw himself into all and any fights but he’s not completely stupid.

It becomes clear that this isn’t just another guy being a little too forward; this is a guy who’s genuinely going to do something illegal. The girl is cowering, her hands gripping tightly on her dress as he tries to drag it up. They’re in a dingy corner where no one can hope to help her unless they’re staring intently and frankly, in a place like this, no one’s gonna. Except for Steve, because he keeps an eye out for these sorta things.

He feels the familiar incandescent rage bubble in his very blood, bringing it to the surface and contracting his muscles. If he’s lucky, he can get there before the guy notices him and spit in his goddamn, smug face.

Only once he gets closer does he recognise the fella. He’s seen him down at the docks when he goes to see Bucky at his shift. Buck may be young but he’s strong; he’s one of the youngest on their entire workforce. That’s lifting, that is. He’s a sailor, works on one of the ratty boats. Steve isn’t quite sure what he does but he’s seen him a dozen or so times, always shouting at some poor soul for something that ain’t their fault. The guy’s a bastard. He’s got a girl, too; Steve had thought that was the only person he seemed to be nice to. Seemed that was a wrong assumption to make too.

Steve ain’t just gonna spit in his face anymore.

He throws the first punch. A strong one; he’s kinda proud of it if not for the horrific burning sensation in his fist. It’s both familiar and agonising and it distracts him long enough that the guy gets a good swing at him. Steve is already sprawled across the floor but a small smile lifts his lips as he sees the girl run off, seemingly to a group of prettier girls that have probably been ignoring her since they arrived. A flush of pity runs through him.

Then again, he’s got bigger things to worry about, like the hulking figure stalking towards him. “Whatcha smiling about, fairy?” The truth stung but not more than a punch would so Steve rolls with the proceedings and clambers back up to his feet.

He gets the shit beaten outta him.

He holds up okay, for a small guy, but he’s drawing a crowd that seems intent on letting him lose. The guy at the front has recognised him too and only seems darkly pleased that Steve’s karma has arrived. Still, the commotion brings about the police eventually, _inevitably_.

They go for Steve. Frankly, it makes no sense. Steve is the little guy and he was just standing up for what’s right but they seem to think he’s the threat, like a growling chihuahua that needs to be put down. The sailor is smug, putting on a saddened face as the police approach. “Officers, this man-“

Before he even manages to finish the sentence, a policeman is trying to get Steve in cuffs. He won’t have it. With a sharpened shoulder, created through years of malnutrition and illness, he jabs the shoulder right in the chest, making him double over for a second and freeing Steve of his hold.

“Over here!” Someone shouts loudly and the accent is more familiar to Steve than his own. Bucky, looking mighty in his sweaty glory, has decided to have a go at one of the guy’s in the corner. Steve has no clue if he’s actually done anything wrong but Bucky’s never quite had the same moral compass as Steve; Steve himself is enough of an excuse to beat a random guy up, doesn’t need to be for the greater good. The fight has drawn the police’s attention and for once, logic seems to take precedent and they try and apprehend the much large man before the growling chihuahua.

Steve knows that once Bucky’s involved it’s time to get out, and quickly. The sailor doesn’t seem intent on keeping up the fight so Steve makes his way towards the entrance, slipping past the policeman and dragging Bucky along with him. Bucky’s done this enough times to know that means it’s time to _run_.

Steve’s asthma plays up half way home but they keep on running until Steve is genuinely unable to breathe, and by then the police have run out of effort, leaving them to the dank streets of poverty-ridden Brooklyn.

“Really, pal?” Bucky sighs when Steve seems to come alive again.

“He was bein’ a creep.”

“Fine but next time, don’t run off.”

“I won’t,” he promises and he really doesn’t think he will. He may be ridden with jealousy but there’s a distinct awareness of how much he loves Bucky that’s come whilst pounding down the cobblestones. Running does that to you sometimes; it makes you feel free, like you’re going so fast that you’re about to take flight. It makes his heart pound as much as the thought of telling Bucky does, as much as just loving Bucky does.

Bucky who gets him out of his own messes. Who drags him to dancehalls in hopes he won’t be alone. Who would let Steve dance with him if he just _asked_.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm lacking the confidence I wanted with this first one but I hoped you enjoyed it anyway :) There's another part if people want it, but I'm not yet confident enough in this to write the last bits of it.


End file.
